In fact, that was exactly the sort of thing Pastor Jeff had preached about on the first Sunday of Advent. “Jesus wasn’t born in the Bethlehem Hilton,” he’d said. “He came right into the mess of our world. And we look around at the stinking mess of our lives and wonder, what can be born in a place like this?”
That was the question, wasn’t it?
What can be born in a place like this?
She lit her after-Thanksgiving-clearance cinnamon spice candle and sat down at the kitchen table, head in her hands.
No clue. Absolutely no clue.
two
Meg
The multiple flight delays upended all of Meg’s plans. Now, not only would Becca be unable to meet her at the airport because of her class schedule, but Meg would need to navigate her way from one of the world’s busiest airports into the heart of one of its busiest cities. By herself. “But don’t worry, Mom,” Becca said when Meg awakened her with their latest anticipated departure time. “There’s an Underground—a subway—station right at the airport, and all you have to do is get on the Piccadilly Line—the blue line—and take it to Russell Square. Okay?”
Meg bit her lip and did not reply.
“You don’t even have to change trains. You just get on one train and stay on it for about an hour, okay?” The next time Becca spoke, her irritation was evident. “Do you want me to miss class and come and get you?”
“No—no, of course not, honey. I’m sure I can manage.” She tried to sound far more confident than she felt. “Can you—can you just tell me again what I’m supposed to do?” Feeling heat rise to her neck and face, she took a pen and a Starbucks receipt from her purse so she could scribble instructions. Soon she would again be a splotchy mess.
Once she hung up the phone, she tried to settle herself with a simple breath prayer that Katherine had taught her: I can’t. You can, Lord.
She inhaled deeply through her nose: I can’t.
Exhaled quietly through parted lips: You can, Lord.
Inhale: I can’t.
Exhale: You can, Lord.
She could almost hear Katherine’s voice, saying, “Breathe in God’s affection for you; breathe out your resistance to God’s love.”
Inhale: Help, Jesus.
Exhale: Please.
Her airplane seatmate’s scrutinizing gaze was on her. She could feel it. She pretended there was something important in her carry-on bag and stooped forward to fiddle around with zippers and pouches.
“Which train did your daughter tell you to take?” Jean asked.
Meg glanced at her scribbled directions, the words almost illegible. “Piccadilly Line to Russell Square. Something about a blue line. But I don’t know what that means.”
Jean retrieved from her purse a pocket-sized map with crisscrossing multicolored lines. “Look.” She pointed to the map. “All the routes are different colors, and the stops are marked along the way. See? Here’s Heathrow. It doesn’t get any easier than this. It’s the blue line right out of the airport, and you don’t even have to change trains when you get into the city. See?”
Meg stared at her pointing finger. On paper it looked extremely straightforward: just follow the blue line past place names she recognized from books. South Kensington. Hyde Park. Piccadilly Circus. Covent Garden. In theory, it all seemed so elementary. But a single delayed flight had already catapulted her into anxious turmoil. No predicting what other wrenches might be flung into her carefully conceived plans.
Jean tucked the map back into her bag. “I’m going on the blue line to Knightsbridge, so we can stick together until then, all right?”
Meg nodded her thanks. She had asked for wings, hadn’t she? She had prayed for freedom from the fears that had held her captive for so many years. Maybe—just maybe—this was all part of learning to fly.
She rubbed her eyes and yawned. If she could stay awake until they boarded the plane, she might be able to get almost a full night’s sleep.
Jean rotated her shoulders. “I’m going to book a massage as soon as I get to my hotel.”
Meg had once had a massage. Jim had booked it for her when she was pregnant with Becca. He had seen an ad in a pregnancy magazine about prenatal massage and some of the benefits in relieving muscle and joint pain. She pressed her fingers into her shoulders and felt the knots. Maybe a long, hot bath would relieve the tension. She closed her eyes and imagined herself luxuriating in a claw-foot tub with English lavender soap.
Yes, a long, hot bath would be perfect. She would take one of those black London cabs from Russell Square Station to the Tavistock Inn, wash away the stress of the trip, and meet Becca in time for afternoon tea. Surely she would be done with her classes by then.
Meg had been anticipating a quintessential English tea for weeks. She’d seen photos on the hotel website of tables set in front of a roaring fire, fruit and sandwiches arranged on delicate porcelain plates, fluffy scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream, shortbread biscuits, pots of tea. She and Becca would have so much to talk about, so much to share. Meg wouldn’t talk with her about Jim right away, not on their first day together. She would wait until they had a few uninterrupted hours—maybe after her school term finished. And then she would show Becca his card. She would tell Becca how much he had loved and longed for her. She would explain that she had been afraid of being crushed by her grief, but that she was experiencing the presence and love of God in a new kind of way that was giving her courage. She would ask for Becca’s forgiveness. Maybe she would also talk about some of the family secrets that had recently come to light. She would have to wait and see about that. She didn’t want to dump too much on her, not all at once.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please?” The agent who had been interacting with frustrated travelers for several hours was speaking into the microphone again. Please, please give us some good news. “We thank you for your patience. We’ll be boarding in twenty minutes.” A cheer erupted.
“It’s about time,” Jean said.
Meg took off her watch and set it forward five hours. There. She was even closer to Becca now.
Apart from some sporadic turbulence that caused Meg’s stomach to turn cartwheels, the transatlantic flight was uneventful. Jean guided her through immigration and baggage claim at Heathrow and then onto the London Underground. Meg tried to avoid staring at her own reflection in the train window as they pulled into another station, but she couldn’t help herself. She looked like a mute, frightened child sitting there on the blue upholstered seat, her hands folded primly in her lap, her posture too stiff and erect. Jean sat beside her, reading a copy of The Guardian newspaper she had picked up at the airport.
“Please mind the gap between the train and the platform,” the recorded female voice instructed. “This is Acton Town. Change here for the District Line and Piccadilly Line services to other destinations.”
Jean flipped a page of the paper. “Stay put,” she said.
“Are we there yet?” a whining voice asked. It was the youngest of an American family that had boarded the train at Heathrow. Meg knew the child’s name was Robbie because Robbie had been devising ways to torment his older sister, Kaitlin, for the past half hour.
“No, we’re not there yet,” Robbie’s mother said for the hundredth time. She was wearing a garish plaid Christmas sweater with a blinking Santa Claus pin. “I told you. I’ll let you know when we have to get off.”
Robbie rolled his eyes and punched Kaitlin’s shoulder.
“Ow! He hit me again!”
Kaitlin wrapped her arms tightly around herself before flouncing over to a seat on the opposite side. Robbie’s mother grabbed his wrist to prevent him from pursuing her. “Ow!” he protested.
The red doors swished open, and a hodgepodge of people entered: businessmen with long overcoats and briefcases, mothers with fidgeting toddlers, and two Muslim women with headscarves and traditional garments covering all but their hands and feet.
“What kin
d of costume is that?” Robbie asked, pointing.
“Shhh,” Robbie’s mother hissed.
For the past half hour, Meg had been careful not to speak, except in occasional whispers to Jean. She hadn’t wanted the American family to realize they had compatriots on the train, for fear of being yanked into their boisterous conversation about how cute the miniature cars were, or how the British currency looked like “play money.”
As the train pulled away from the station, Robbie resumed singing the same rude version of “Jingle Bells” Meg had learned on the playground when she was a little girl. Either his parents didn’t notice or didn’t care that the other passengers were casting hostile glances in their direction. She felt her face flush. Did she look like an American?
The truth was, Robbie’s parents had been voicing some of the very same observations Meg had been making to herself. For one thing, the scenery was surprisingly gloomy. She had expected a bucolic, rolling landscape with thatched cottages, ancient stone churches, and cobblestoned villages alongside meandering streams. Instead, she’d seen mostly brick row houses sandwiched together (“Look how tiny those yards are!”) and industrial parks blighted with graffiti (“Guess they’ve got the same swear words over here!”). They sped past littered embankments, concrete high-rise apartment complexes, and the occasional soccer field until they traveled underground again.
When Robbie and his family finally exited the train at South Kensington, the whole compartment seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Or maybe it was just Meg’s relief.
“A swift kick in the behind could have solved that.” Jean motioned after their retreating forms. Robbie was still singing as the rapid, high-pitched beeps indicated closing doors. “People like that give all of us a bad name.”
Meg nodded but did not reply.
“Next stop is mine.” Jean looked up at the Underground grid on the wall. A fresh wave of panic swept over Meg. She’d been so distracted by Robbie’s family, she had almost forgotten the moment was approaching when she would be on her own. “Just keep alert and watch the station names, and you’ll be fine. When you see Holborn, you’ll know you get off at the next one. Okay?”
Meg wanted to summon a confident sounding reply but didn’t trust herself to speak. So she nodded again. Pull yourself together, the voice inside her head commanded.
“You’re going to love London. You’ll see.” Jean ran her fingers through her hair as the train slowed again. The doors swished open, and she grabbed her suitcase. “Good luck!”
Meg had hardly managed to say thank you before she disappeared into the jostling crowd.
“This is Russell Square,” said the recording. Meg clutched her suitcases. “Please stand clear of the closing doors.” She pressed forward and toddled off the train, the red doors swishing behind her. As the train departed with an accelerating hum, Meg stared at the curved tiled walls with their green and black art nouveau mosaics. No wonder they called it the Tube. She was standing in a cylindrical tunnel, deep underground.
“Lifts and Stairs,” the sign read, a helpful arrow pointing her in the right direction. Feeling conspicuous dragging her luggage, she followed the crowd of predominantly backpack-wearing students down a narrow hallway to a long flight of stairs.
Was there no elevator?
She would never manage two suitcases, one carry-on, and a large purse up the stairs by herself. She had visions of tottering forward, only to fall backwards in a crumpled heap.
Think.
Think.
It was like the old river-crossing logic puzzle. Maybe if she left one suitcase at the bottom of the stairs and took the other one to the top and left it there, she could run back down again and get the other one before—
“Jackson, help that woman with her bags.” The female voice was distinctly American, with a Southern drawl. Turning around, Meg saw what she presumed to be a mother with her teenage son. “He’ll help you.” The woman nudged him. Without a word, the boy picked up both suitcases. “There are elevators up there that go to the street.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Meg followed them up the stairs and stood with the crowd of people waiting for elevator doors to open. To her right was a spiral staircase with a sign that read, “This stairway has 175 steps,” followed by a safety warning. Meg saw dozens of people lose patience with the elevators and take their chances.
She glanced at her watch. Almost two-thirty. She would have just enough time to get to the hotel and have a bath before tea. She could almost taste the sandwiches. She’d been asleep when the meal was served on the plane, and she suddenly realized how hungry she was.
The metal doors slid open, and the crowd thrust itself forward. “Can you manage from here?” the woman asked once they reached the bustling street-level entrance. Meg hesitated. “You’ll need your ticket to get out.” She pointed to the multiple turnstiles, where queues of people were rhythmically inserting tickets and exiting with assembly line precision. Meg dug around in her purse and removed the stub.
“This way, Madam,” another voice said. A uniformed man at the Disabled Exit was motioning to her. “Bring your luggage this way.” She inserted her ticket, and the automated gate with its wheelchair and stroller logos swung open.
As soon as she emerged on the other side, she looked about for the friendly stranger. But she had already disappeared. Had she thanked them? She couldn’t remember.
Tugging at her suitcases, she trod out to the street where she gazed into gray drizzle and fog. Just one last challenge to navigate. How did you hail a taxi in London? Yell? Wave like they did in the movies?
She watched to see if any other travelers were waiting for cabs, but she was alone with her luggage. Pedestrians darted in and out of shops; cars sped by on the wrong side of the road. She jumped back from the curb as a red double-decker bus plastered with ads sprayed half a puddle onto her coat.
It wasn’t what she had imagined.
She had expected some sort of quaint evidence of Christmas—if not Dickensian carolers on the street corner in top hats and fur muffs, singing to the crackle and pop of roasting chestnuts, then at least some evergreen wreaths on doors or sparkling white lights in trees.
Maybe it was too early in the day for lights or too early in the season for carolers and chestnuts.
Not that there were carolers and chestnuts on street corners in Kingsbury. But this was England! And at the moment, apart from the miniature cars hurtling along on the wrong side of the street, it looked a bit like pictures she’d seen of New York or Boston. No castles, no lopsided Tudor buildings with ancient oak beams, flanking narrow alleyways. Just a busy road with storefronts, including one with an awning which read, “Newsagent, Tobacco, Souvenirs, Confectionery.”
She was just about to try to call Becca again when she heard an accented voice. “Where to, luv?”
A taxi!
Thank you, Jesus.
The cabbie had rolled down his window and was leaning toward her. Even the steering wheel was on the wrong side.
“The Tavistock Inn,” she said, glad she remembered the name without having to root around in her bag for the slip of paper with all her instructions.
“Ahhh . . . the ol’ Tav.” Meg wasn’t sure if this description was a fond endearment of a charming place or a warning. He hopped out of the car, opened the rear door, and heaved her bags into the back. The black vinyl seats were damp from the rain-splattered gear of previous passengers, and the cab smelled like wet dog. “Right, then,” he said. “We’re off.” Meg tightened the frayed seatbelt around her waist and held her breath.
Hannah
Hannah knocked on Nathan’s office door just before eleven o’clock. No answer. She couldn’t remember which classes he taught on Tuesdays, and the posted schedule showed office hours beginning at two o’clock. So much for trying to surprise him for lunch. She texted to say she was on campus, then headed to the student center, a large, contemporary steel building with high cei
lings and walls of windows overlooking a scenic pond rimmed by expensive homes. Nathan had promised to take her out for a rowboat picnic in the spring.
As she waited in line for chai, Hannah scanned the room. The place was palpably charged with end-of-semester stress, and she wondered if any of the students sprawled at tables stacked with open books were fretting over Nathan’s courses. Many of them wore earbuds, listening to iPods while they typed on laptops. Hannah had never been able to listen to music and read at the same time. Classical music, maybe, but nothing with lyrics.
Some days she felt like an old woman at thirty-nine.
Come to think of it, she was theoretically old enough to be the mother of a freshman.
Or a sophomore.
Best not to think of it.
Cup in hand, Hannah approached an overstuffed chair and ottoman where a freckled redhead was cramming books into a backpack. “You looking for a place to sit?” he asked. “I’m just leaving. You can have my spot.”
She watched a pair of swans glide across the water and felt a twinge of guilt over taking a coveted location in such a crowded place. Maybe he thought she was a professor.
And maybe she should practice receiving a gift.
That was one of the growing edges of the sabbatical: after a lifetime of trying faithfully to deliver God’s gifts to others, she was learning to receive and celebrate God’s good gifts to her. Slowly. “It’s a great spot,” she said. “Thank you.”
While the student finished packing up his books, Hannah read a text from Nathan. He’d meet her for lunch at noon. Perfect. That would give her some time to journal and pray. Thanking the student again, she pulled her Bible and journal out of her canvas tote bag and sat down to write.
Tuesday, December 2
11:20 a.m.
I’m really worried about Mara. I don’t know what Tom’s capable of, and Mara clearly didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t know what to do. I called Nate last night after I got off the phone with her. He gave me some local resources to be aware of and reminded me that I’m not her pastor, and I can’t rescue her. He also cautioned me about being tempted to dive right in there and try to fix things for her.
Two Steps Forward Page 4